


Willing Break of Faith

by kyuubi_wench



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, Mild Language, Multi, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyuubi_wench/pseuds/kyuubi_wench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan puts his cross aside and waits, kneeling in his room as the house settles for the night. He knows what is coming, they have been giving him <i>that</i> look all day.</p><p>"Come join us, priest.” Lagertha's sweet voice beckons from the door, Ragnar's face peering over her shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willing Break of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the series, especially the bits in Episode 8, where he denies his religion. I totally broke for Athelstan in that moment. And then I discovered the porn running around here and decided to contribute.
> 
> Done primarily for the smut and a little for the exploration of Athelstan, and the down breaking of his beliefs and obligations. a bit introspective, but hopefully not enough to be angsty. 
> 
> beta'd / overread by my friend, Katrin. Thank you for letting me break your mind, darling!!!

He hadn't been honest with the druid- priest, the Viking's holy man, but he had been more honest with himself in that moment. As much as he's clung to his Christianity, he has lost himself along the way. Athelstan caresses his cross one more time. He knows what he is doing, knows he will not only break his vows, but commit grievous sins in the eyes of the Church. Several of them, in fact.

Athelstan puts his cross aside and waits, kneeling in his room as the house settles for the night. He knows what is coming, they have been giving him _that_ look all day.

 

"Come join us, priest.” Lagertha's sweet voice beckons from the door, Ragnar's face peering over her shoulder. They don't make that offer often anymore, but they've never quite stopped, even when he tried explaining his vows. Every few moons they would come, one of them offering but both of them involved. Tonight her eyes dare him to refuse them, or to go against his vows and accept. Dare him to speak up and make a choice.

 

Athelstan stands, watching as heat swamps Ragnar's eyes. It quickens Athelstan's breath, knowing Ragnar wants this, that Lagertha still invits him to their bed. For a moment he wonders if they know that he has finally changed his mind.

 

Perhaps not. Lagertha seems to resign herself slightly, when he stands. Maybe readying herself for another refusal, even as her eyes still challenge him.

 

He steps toward them, crossing the room in only a few strides, though they take a moment's eternity. He walks just a bit slower than his usual stride, to not seem too eager or a threat- not that he could ever be a threat to either of them. The tension in his own body ratchets up, until he is before them, body tight with nerves. He drops his eyes a moment before he can lift them to meet Lagertha's. “If my lady and earl wish it.” This is his consent, the only way he can let himself give it.

The challenge flees Lagertha's eyes, replaced by a stunning amount of heated welcome. Behind her, Ragnar grins, hungry and pleased.

 

  


 

 

******

 

  


 

Lagertha kisses him first, her lips soft and gentle on his mouth, then a cheek, just a quick peck as she moves around him. And then he's sharply aware of being pinned between them both, just before Ragnar leans down the scant inch or two and fairly pillages his mouth. Athelstan tries to draw back, hampered by the soft curves pressed to his back. He can't escape Ragnar's mouth- the faintly chapped lips, the sharp teeth, the invading tongue.

 

It heats his blood, nearly as much as it makes him want to flee. It is too much, so soon, and even if he had been expecting things, he isn't expecting the level of intensity. Ragnar pulls away, gives him a chance to breath. Athelstan wastes no time sucking in air, feeling his body shake between these people who have claimed him; his master, the earl of these people, and his lady, a fierce shield-maiden. Pinned and held between them, but not trapped, no. He has consented to being here, after all. His next inhale is shaky, almost a moan, and Ragnar groans in answer. Lagertha presses harder against his back, her curves flattening against his chest.

 

"You like to serve, priest?” Her voice whispers in his ear, honey-soft and devious. Athelstan can only nod, breathless as he watches Ragnar's face. They're all close enough to hear each other, even whispering, and his master has obviously heard. The grin there is fearsome, wolfish, and Athelstan knows he should be scared, but he's not. It sends shivers through him, instead, sliding down his spine and making heat pool in his loins. He can feel her fingers gripping his shoulders, bracing him rather than putting pressure on them. “Then kneel, and serve your master.”

 

Athelstan slid to his knees, their bodies still crowding him, hiding him. Protecting him, if he dare think of it that way. Ragnar's nimble fingers pull his tunic up, and Athelstan moves as he needs to, to help get the material off his own body. It leaves him with a light buzz, this baring of himself, and if he wasn't already committed in this direction, the feeling of being exposed before them might scare him off. After all this time, it's not like he doesn't know what they want from him, after all. The knowledge would have terrified him, when he had first arrived. Athelstan looks up the long body, taller from this place on his knees, up to the gleaming eyes.

 

"How may I serve you, master?”

 

The words draw another groan from Ragnar, and Athelstan digs his fingers into his thighs to keep from reaching before he's told. He knows what he wants, what he is willing to do with them (almost anything, and he has fought that longing for too long, now). He doesn't know what Ragnar wants from him, though, what he can do, although he has watched silently often enough to get an idea of what Ragnar likes. Surely at least some of the things he has seen Lagertha do, he himself can do for Ragnar. Mouths and tongues and hands are not really different, after all, one person to the next.

 

Ragnar peels his own clothes off swiftly, stepping away only far enough to keep from hitting anyone with his motions. Naked, he stands strong and proud, _every single inch_ of him. Athelstan feels his chest tremor a little as Ragnar returns, that particular hard bit of flesh at perfect eye level. He doesn't know if he is nervous, eager, or both.

 

Probably both, if he's perfectly honest with himself.

 

"Suck my prick, priest.” The words make Athelstan color up, a little, having heard them spoken to other people, but never toward himself. It brings a bit of novelty to the coarse words, having them directed at him, like this. He pants his next breath, exhaling across the already shiny tip, making Ragnar's hips twitch. Athelstan leans closer, then, flicking his tongue out to collect the moisture. Ragnar's fingers tangle into the hair, now grown out, and drags Athelstan closer. It takes a moment for Athelstan to catch on, opening his mouth wide enough to not scrape the heated flesh, to let Ragnar groan and pump his hips against Athelstan's face. The priest allows himself a small flicker of pride at that, the same kind of simple pride of a job well done.

 

He's nowhere close to done, though, and he knows it. But it's a small victory to feel Ragnar like this, to let himself accept their offer and finally join them.

 

Ragnar pulls away after a moment, swearing, making Athelstan look up with a frown. Has he done something wrong? He shivers as Ragnar grabs him, pulling him up off the floor, and moans himself when Ragnar's mouth finds his. It's once again an invasion of lips and tongue and teeth, hands grabbing his body and clutching him close.

 

It lasts until Athelstan's weak, limbs having gone limp and body become eager, until Ragnar pulls away to pepper kisses and sharp nips over his throat. He hears Ragnar talking, his lips scraping his throat with rough whispers, and cannot make out the words; but suddenly it doesn't matter anymore. Calloused fingers pull him back by his shoulders, turning him toward the bed.

 

Lagertha takes over, leads him to the bed and away from the searing heat Ragnar has become. Athelstan misses it, wishing to do more, to taste and please and things he doesn't quite have the words for, yet. Things his body _craves_. She gives him a warm smile and draws him to hover over her body as she lays back on the mound of furs. It presents his back and ass to Ragnar, and if he isn't so thoroughly, momentarily distracted, he might be worried. Or at least more aware. Instead he fixates on Lagertha's smiling face, the fingers she is carding through his hair. “May I serve you, too, my lady?”

 

"Ready to touch a woman, priest?” She asks, her fingers tightening in his hair before he can answer. Instead, the sharp sensation pulls a gasp from him, body jerking above her. It makes his own hardening flesh dip and briefly touch her skin, which in turn makes him groan for an entirely different reason. “I know you have watched us. You have seen the things I like.” There's fire snapping in her eyes, challenge filling them like they had been when she stopped at his door. “If you think you learned something, then try, priest. Serve me.”

 

He smiles, murmuring a clear “Yes, my lady.” He slides down as soon as she releases him, lips dropping light kisses over her stomach as he descends, until he is facing her lower lips. She smells musky, a little sweet; a scent he's come to memorize at a distance and has found himself coveting a taste. He bends in, hips still cocked up, as if in offering, and lowers his mouth to her. Her fingers dig into his hair, again, and he moans, heat pouring over her mound. It makes her writhe, in turn, tugging at his hair.

 

He's pretty certain his cock's never been this hard, but with his hands carefully bracketing her hips, now, he can't do much about it. Just deliver on his orders and show her that he has been paying attention, even if he never practiced. He slides his tongue against her folds, feeling the way her muscles twitch slightly under his fingers, sensitive from holding a quill for so many years.

 

Fingers brush across the curve of his ass. Athelstan moans, again, hips twitching and trying to arch higher, offer himself up on a silver platter. He's only partially conscious of his actions, focused primarily on the way Lagertha is starting to get wet, spilling an odd, new slickness across his tongue. He doesn't have a clue what kind of picture he's creating, eating Lagertha out and arching his body in place, posing for Ragnar. Even if he could have seen himself, he might only have guessed at Ragnar's reactions, but never his intentions, of the things that are about to happen.

 

He has only been able to study the intimacies between Ragnar and Lagertha, and the dim, hazy memories from the revel that night. Whatever the mushrooms caused left him with distorted visions of couples together, things he cannot parcel out and understand. He really has no clue about the intimacies shared between two men. Ragnar's actions might have spooked him, if he had known. But he doesn't, and his body acts on pleasured, needy instinct.

 

Hands settle on his hips, weight coming to rest on the pile of furs behind him. Athelstan absently notices, guesses blindly that Ragnar is watching the view, probably criticizing the way he now worships the man's wife. Does Ragnar recognize that Athelstan's trying to recreate his master's own technique? Or does he just see the clumsy attempts of a foolish, inexperienced man? Athelstan licks again before attempting to bury his tongue into his lady's welcoming warmth, mimicking the actions that another muscle would rather be doing. But she has not given him leave to fuck her, not yet, and her hands are yet tangled in his hair.

 

If she wants to hold him here until she is satisfied, he will stay. He doesn't resist the hands holding his body in place. Instead he takes relief in it, knowing even though he accepted their offer they are still in control, that he is abiding the wishes of his master. The children of God are commanded to serve their masters to their best ability in all ways they are ordered. In this breaking of vows there is a following of other rules, other commands that he lets soothe the ache of his splintering Christian soul, easing it so he may better serve these two people.

 

The touch in a different place, so very private to his body, brings him to gasping and writhing in Lagertha's grip, raising his head enough to breathe away from her wetness. She will not let him turn his head, though, to take a look of Ragnar's calloused fingers stroking his cleft. He can _feel_ it, a slow sliding of skin on skin, through the crinkly hairs of his lower body. It's shocking, filthy, and damning, leaving arousal and embarrassment to war within Athelstan for a fierce moment. Then different calloused fingers stroke his cheek, and he looks up, past the curves of Lagertha's body, to see her eyes smiling calmly down at him.

 

"We will not hurt you, Athelstan.” It is the first time she's used his name tonight since this began, and it warms him, her quiet voice giving her word, the honor he knows that she holds in the saying of such things. It's in her voice, soothing and firm together, and he ducks his head in answer. Athelstan returns his mouth to her, lets her hold him in place.

 

Only when he has submitted once again do those fingers do more than stroke, almost innocently in that not-so-innocent place. Touches slide over a place he does not care to think about outside of washing, and then only for the moments it takes to clean the skin. He doesn't remove himself from Lagertha, this time, but tries to focus on her body. It is easier than trying to question his master. Question the touch that makes him want to squirm with odd, new feelings. He whimpers, though, an honest-to-God _whimper_ , when a suddenly slick finger squirms against him, slowly opening him up. It doesn't hurt, not really, just uncomfortable and intrusive and _distracting_. He can't continue his task, merely resting his head on the inside of Lagertha's thigh, panting and trembling. If he thinks about it, he will panic; the understanding of what Ragnar is doing, what he is being prepared for, dawning in his mind.

 

Lagertha's fingers tighten against his scalp, but she doesn't make him move. Instead her voice comes down to him, filtering through the new sensations and knowledge. He clings to it, latching onto her voice with the same intensity that his fingers grip her hips, letting her anchor him. Lets the soothing words flow over him, that they will take care of him, that he is safe, that he will enjoy this if he just relaxes. He is beautiful, she tells him, beautiful in his submission and service to them. She reminds him there is no shame in this. No shame in letting himself feel pleasure, of being with them and giving his body to them.

 

Her words cannot hide what he feels, even if he uses her voice to keep from drowning. A finger, pressing deep, so very deep he thinks it should hurt but doesn't. Then something wet, warm, and pliable, and it takes him a long, earth-shattering minute to realize Ragnar is licking him, putting his mouth _there_ of all places. Athelstan makes noises he would never have dreamed of, whimpering and moaning as his body is made willing and ready between them, sounds that would have shamed him, before. He cries out as two fingers press deep into him, the feeling shocking and bright.

 

"Made for pleasure, priest. Come for us.” The words barely filter in past the new, intense sensations, and Athelstan doesn't understand them, but his body does. He's coming, spilling his seed over the furs while Ragnar strokes his fingers into him. It leaves him strung tight until the wave passes, then he collapses against Lagertha's legs, Ragnar sliding his hand away. Athelstan lays there, lethargic and loose and relaxed in a way he's never known.

 

He's dazed while hands carefully shift him aside, half rolling him off Lagertha's legs. He lays there for several minutes, letting the warmth and relaxed feelings, so strange and new, flow over him. He doesn't care that things continue on; in those moments he is alone with his body singing praises of a different sort. When he finally comes up out of post orgasm haze, it's to the sight of Ragnar fucking into his wife, just beside him, her throaty sounds indicating how close to done she is. Athelstan watches, openly and unashamed, until she shoves at Ragnar's shoulders. The man stops, propped up over his wife, wide grin firmly in place. “Had enough, my wife?” He asks, and his amusement is clear in eyes and voice. Lagertha simply gives him that look- one of so many that passes instead of words between them. Athelstan can clearly see the flicker of her eyes as they move to him, but he hasn't learned all their subtle- and less subtle- looks, and this one still eludes it. It's like the one that he saw all day today, that warned him they would ask this night. But yet, it's not the same.

 

Ragnar pushes himself up further, hiking Lagertha's hips up. He holds her casually in place, curves clear of the bed, as he kneels. It's a very casual display of just how much strength Ragnar wields. “Come here.” This time Ragnar asks, even though the words could be an order. Athelstan kneels up, shuffles the scant inches until Lagertha's hand snags his.

 

"Would you let him fuck you, priest?”

 

The tingles and pleasant ache in his body seem to multiply at those words, as his mind promptly supplies images of him being in Lagertha's place, legs spread wide around Ragnar's hips, with the man's prick plundering the same dark crevice he'd touched earlier. Athelstan has the pieces now, understands what she is asking him. Because it is a question- not an order, or a demand, but a simple question. There is no judgment in her eyes. And still, with all he's done tonight, let them do to him, out of choice and orders and because he wants to, even if he could be damned for it- it is this, now, when he pauses. He wants to say yes.

 

He wants more that they would have ordered him, or strongly suggested it, instead of giving him this choice with which to hang himself.

 

His body shudders, betraying his spark of indecision, his flare of dilemma. Lagertha strokes her hand over his wrist, like a reminder she is there, and that he has not given her an answer. He shifts a little, still on his knees, and feels the stinging reminder of their earlier activities. Surely, this is not worse than what he has already done, what he committed to when he got into this tonight?

 

"Yes. I would let him...” He hesitates, again, his voice dropping off to nothing. Why? Why are the words so hard to say? Why does it feel like his tongue is suddenly frozen in his mouth?

 

"I will not force you, Athelstan.” Ragnar's voice broke through, drawing his mind for the circles of doubts and uncertainty and want. “I will not be angry, if you would rather say no.” He is still holding onto Lagertha, using just his voice to reach Athelstan. The monk meets Ragnar's eyes, realizes he must be acting foolish. He shook his head, lowering his eyes to the floor and the furs, not even looking at Lagertha.

 

"I want... but I don't, can't...” He's already come this far. What is one more act? A drop of water into an ocean, he thinks, because he has no doubts that he will keep coming back to their bed anytime they ask. Someday, if they allow him, he might join them without being asked first. The thought strengthens him. “I want to know what it's like,” he finally admits, managing to keep his voice steady. Even if it is only just barely louder than a whisper. He lifts his eyes, meets Ragnar's stunning blue eyes, and ties his own noose. “Please.”

 

Ragnar groans, deep enough it sounds like a growl. Lagertha softly chuckles, using her hand on Athelstan's wrist to draw him close. He almost doesn't realize what she's doing, until her other hand came up to cup his head, pulling him down and close enough to kiss. This he can do, and willingly gets lost in the soothing caress of her mouth against his, until fingers stroke along his ass, drawing him up for breath. It still feels as intensely odd as it did earlier, only now he understands a little of what to expect. “Good,” Lagertha croons at him. “Let him in your body.”

 

God forgive him, but he does; his body relaxes and opens for Ragnar's pressing fingers as his breath flees. It's still as stunning and weird as ever, but slightly more familiar. Especially when two fingers slide deep, causing sparks to explode behind his eyes. He's begging for more, please, just _do it_ , before he can think to contain the words.

 

Movement, Lagertha's sharp gasp and a soft moan, and then Ragnar's putting his weight over Athelstan's back. Blunt, insistent pressure that's slick and _hot_ , spears into his body in one deep, deep stroke. He cries out, voice strangling on an embarrassingly high note, body suddenly tense. This is nothing quite like he'd imagined in those few moments before he agreed to it. He doesn't even think to struggle, although he is being held at both ends to keep from fleeing. Ragnar grips his hips and is swearing behind him, 'fuck' and 'tight' and words in Norse that Athelstan has not yet learned, while Lagertha's hands stroke over his neck and shoulders. He shudders between them while his body complains, for long enough that Lagertha tucks her body under him a little more and starts kissing him again. Slow and sweet, drawing him into distraction with lips and tongue and teeth, gradually getting more assertive but not near the intensity that Ragnar used.

 

He doesn't recall when he started whimpering, but he knows the exact moment Ragnar pulls away. Athelstan feels every bit of the heavy heat inside him as Ragnar withdraws, moaning at the feeling. They don't stop, not when Ragnar pushes back in or when the rhythm picks up, although the sound changes a little. It's deep and dirty and if he was paying any attention he might be embarrassed. Instead all he can think about is why he hasn't done this before, and if this is sin, it must be a blessing as well, to feel this good.

 

A hand wraps around him, stroking the hardness that he hasn't even noticed returning. He cries out, sobbing as he feels the same overwhelming wave that wiped him out before, rising through his body even more vicious than the last time. His cries to turn words, begging, arms shaking as he tries to keep himself up, barely aware of Lagertha's body still under him, taken over by the harsh pounding as Ragnar fucks him closer to the edge.

 

Ragnar continues to fuck into him as the wave breaks, until Athelstan is coming so hard he's screaming and sobbing, restraint long gone. He's stripped down and exposed and riding pleasure so sharp he falls numb, vision gone dark and his mind slipping away entirely.

 

  
   


 

******

 

  


 

Ragnar catches Athelstan's body as the man falls unconscious. He pulls out of the monk and settles him across the furs, pulling a corner of the blanket over the pale back.

 

"Is he well?”

 

Ragnar runs his fingers down Athelstan's body, checking between the man's legs for any sign of trauma or blood. There is none. “He is well. He will be sore tomorrow, be gentle on him.”

 

"Like I would hurt our priest.” Lagertha rebukes, then runs her own exploring hand over Athelstan's body. “All will be well,” she whispers. All _would_ be well. She simply knew it. Their priest is now _theirs_ , utterly, completely. No god would steal him from them, not now. Not ever again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just adding this as a big thank you to everyone who taps that Kudos button. I wasn't anticipating this to be as readily received as it was! Thanks~


End file.
